


Ephemeris

by Arcane_Light



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017), Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 06:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcane_Light/pseuds/Arcane_Light
Summary: I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't want to be alone. That just makes it all the worse when people come and go, and the chaos they leave in their wake. I should know better by now, but of course I don't. I never learn, even when I'm huddled on the floor in a pool of tears and blood, even when everyone who's ever mattered is gone, even when the world turns to ash around me, you'll still find me reaching a weak and ragged hand out into the void, hoping somewhere, somehow, I might feel something.
  As she waits for death in the blackened halls of Blakegate Penitentiary, Eliana Orlova receives an unlikely visit from Colonel Rick Flag, attack dog for the infamous Amanda Waller. With a measly stack of papers, he brings every horrible piece of her past back to light and Eliana is forced to face the one memory she never wanted to remember.





	

_Blackgate Penitentiary. August 10, 2016. 18:31 GMT._

_Just outside Gotham. It’s mid-evening as Colonel Rick Flag passes through a secure gate into the penitentiary's D Block. He approaches a dark cell. It’s completely enclosed, sealed by a thick door. There are no windows in the hall of Block D, but he can see a lone figure inside the cell, leaned over on a bench. He pulls out a file and begins to read._

“Orlova, Eliana Aristova. Metahuman. Known aliases: Solaris, L. Heliokinesis, solar radiation manipulation, electromagnetic manipulation, power increase through solar radiation absorption.” Flag closes the file and folds his arms. “You’re like a little nuclear bomb, aren’t you?” The figure hasn’t moved. He continues. “Is that what happened to your parents?” There’s a slight twitch, so he continues. “I don’t know. You get that close to a nuke something’s bound to blow up. It’s only a matter of time.”

“What do you want?” a calm voice speaks from the shadows. Flag watches as two dull golden specks peer out at him. 

“We wanna know what you know,” he says plainly. “And you know things. Things no one else can possibly know. Four years ago everyone thought you died, gone up in a blaze of glory in that refinery explosion. Turns out you just fell of the face of the earth, and you know we couldn’t let that happen.”

“Does my life mean so little to you?” the eyes ask, their light seeming to fade in even this small amount of time. 

“On the contrary,” Flag counters. “The life of a former Russian attack dog,” he spits the words, “means less than nothing to me, but my superiors think otherwise. So you’re gonna tell us what you know, and maybe,” he points with the file, “I let you see the sun before you die.” 

The eyes glimmer for a moment. A moment of weakness they soon regret. They rise and take smooth steps toward the cell door. Flag doesn’t step back, but his arms tense and he resists reaching for his gun. The florescent light from the hall draws a flickering line on the floor of the cell and two feet step into view. It’s a girl. Young, 24 according to her file. Younger than him. Dark hair hangs on either side of her face as she stares at Flag, her eyes a dark shade of brown. 

“Do I have your word?” she asks. Flag resists a laugh. That a convicted criminal in secure lockdown on a life-sentence would speak simply on the promise of one of her jailers amuses him. Still, he suffers a moment of pity for the girl. If not for her file, he may have even respected her. 

“Depends on what you have to say,” he tells her. She looks to the ground for a moment, then looks up. The steel in her eyes has faded. She’s tired. 

“It’s not a fun story.”

“Never is.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I didn’t think this would be my story to tell. I never did. I shouldn’t have to, but the world likes to fuck with people. And it fucks with the people that can survive, the ones that can crawl their way back up, dig through shit and hell, and survive to tell the story, regardless of how it leaves them in the end. And I guess, looking back now, I’m really the only one that can. So, here goes. 

_Russia. January 9, 1996._

_A gentle stream of airy, white snow drifts down from the star-speckled sky. It’s late, and cold, and quiet, and the whole of town should be happily dozed in sleep. The moon shines bright overhead, framed by thin midnight clouds, tossing its white light across hills and trees. In the distance, the hills glow red and flash yellow. Overhead the trees suddenly shake and send a flurry of snow plopping into the speeding windshield. A man grips the steering wheel and redirects the tailspin while a woman cradles a fussing child in the backseat._

_“Gospodin Orlov,” she mutters in hurried Russian, “Where are we going?”_

_“To Astrakhan,” the man replies. “I have a plane waiting to take you to Moscow.”_

_“Why?” she asks as they tear around an icy corner. “After all that has happened? You cannot leave your daughter!”_

_“Enough, Fedosia,” he snaps, but tempers his tone at the sight of two small golden eyes staring at him from the backseat. He reaches back and grips a tiny, shaking hand. “Moya kroshka, it’s alright. Everything is okay. Will you smile for me, moy svet?” The little girl gives an encouraged smile, perhaps hopeful that this chaotic car ride isn’t as ominous as it seems._

_Her father’s hand is ripped from hers as the car smashes forward and spins on the once-deserted road. They collide with a mangled tree and smoke rises from the crumpled hood. The woman releases her grip on the child, unharmed, as the man, with blood running down his face, turns to look at the lights drawing near through shattered glass._

_“You must go,” he says, reaching under the dash to produce a large rifle. The little girl does not finch. She’s seen her father’s guns before. “You must go now!” He shoves open the bent door and pulls the seat forward, leaving enough space for the two riders to slip out into the icy snow. There are voices now, and gunshots that ping the side of the car._

_“We cannot leave you, Alexei!” the woman shouts as the man crawls across the front seat and positions himself behind the car. He rests the rifle against the smoking hood and takes the child in his arms._

_This is the last I remember of him, she thinks. The rest comes in fragments of cold winds, scuffed knees, and howling engines. She remembers only his jacket, thick and warm and smelling of cloves, and the words he whispered in her ear: “Siyat', lyubov' moya, i nikogda ne sdavat'sya.” Shine bright, my love, and never give up._

_Then they ran._

L opens her eyes. They don’t flash open, and she doesn’t jolt forward from her bed. She’s calm, though her heart aches solidly beneath her chest. It’s been months since she dreamt of that night, months since she remembered her father’s face, and she grips her hands, feeling the long-healed scratches of frantic steps along a moonlit gravel road. 

She tosses the blanket back and swings her feet to the floor. The clock shows a faint blue light – 6:45. She grabs her shoes as the door closes behind her. 

The air outside is crisp and smells faintly of salt and humidity. The Atlantic glimmers with the whispers of a rising sun as L runs along the coast, her feet bouncing along the gritty sand, each step a cushioned stride into the next. She has thick, dark hair that trails behind her as she runs, and pale skin stretched over smooth muscle. It takes her an hour to reach the drop-off and when she plants herself on the edge of the dangling cliff her back is speckled with tiny streams of sweat. The breeze rises and falls as the sun peaks over the horizon. 

L closes her eyes and feels the light on her skin. She sits for thirty minutes before crawling to the beach and walking in. She floats on her back, eyes closed. Then she runs back. 

By now, the compound is bustling with early morning activity. She greets several guards and groundskeepers, snagging a towel from the corner of a pool chair before hiking up the grand staircase of the secondary wing. She swings open the door to a palatial room, complete with sweeping balcony, ocean views, canopied bed, and glittering marble floors. Which are currently covered with a layer of sequins, suede pumps, and makeup. She walks to the mound of blankets on the bed and pokes it. 

“Sasha, time to get up. It’s almost 10:00.”

The mound resists. L walks to the window and pulls back the gauzy curtains. The mound rustles and emerges, a beautiful young girl with a mountain of wild blonde curls and hazel eyes. She takes one look at the rising sun and flops back to the pillows. 

“Too early,” Sasha mumbles, burrowing her face deeper. L grabs a dress from the floor and drapes it over a tufted chair. 

“Not my fault,” L replies. “I didn’t stay out until 3:00 two nights in a row. Now come on,” she rips back the duvet to find another beneath, and sighs. Sasha drags herself out from beneath her plush shield and rubs at her eyes. 

“You smell like sweat and saltwater,” she grimaces as L hands her a glass of water and two pills. 

“Working on it,” L replies and turns for the bathroom. Sasha quickly downs the glass and springs from her bed. 

“No no no no no!” she reaches the door too late, L securely locked inside despite Sasha’s desperate yanking. “No, get out! I have to be at dad’s meeting by 11:00!” 

“So do I,” L says plainly through the door. 

“Come on, L, please!” Sasha cries. 

“There are six other bathrooms in this wing,” L tells her. “Go use one.”

“But all my stuff’s in there!” Sasha yanks on the handle to no avail. The door flies open, nearly sending Sasha tumbling to the floor. She looks pitiful, and L looks unforgiving, but L steps aside and Sasha dashes in, immediately hopping into the already pouring shower. 

“Do me a favor,” L shouts over the roar of five shower heads, “Don’t wear that red dress today.” Sasha sticks her soapy head around the shower door.

“Why not?” she asks. “I just got it.”

“Just don’t, okay?” L says. “Do the white one or the blue one.” 

“Oh my god,” Sasha groans. “It’s brunch, not church! And what do you know about fashion. When was the last time you wore something other than those mangy boots.” L briskly pulls the shower door back, water sprinkling on the thick, white rug. 

“Do you want to go by yourself?” L threatens. Sasha smirks. 

“You know I can’t go by myself,” and she closes the door, cranking the music inside. 

_Hour and a half later. A bright and glamourous garden outside a sprawling estate. Sasha and L step out of a shimmering white Rolls Royce, Sasha in a knee-length white dress, L in a respectable blue blazer and khakis. They walk down the cobblestone path flanked by two large guards. Around people are sipping mimosas and chatting. Ahead is a large man, tall and regal in a khaki suit and open shirt, with greying hair that shows signs of blond. Anton Egorov, a Russian mob king. He shakes the hand of another man, but breaks away as the girls approach._

“Privet, papa!” Sasha smiles and kisses him on both cheeks. She is half his size. He beams.

“Moy angel,” he says, holding her out at arm’s length to admire her. “You look lovely.” He meets L’s gaze and smiles.

L nods, “Otets.”

Egorov places a hand on Sasha’s back and directs her to the men standing across from them.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce my daughter, Aleksandra. Sasha, this is Mr. Jeong and Mr. Yi.” They shake hands. Sasha is excellent at charming them.

“A pleasure, gentlemen. I do hope you’re enjoying your visit.”

“Very much so, Miss Sasha. Thank you.” Mr. Jeong keeps formality, but Mr. Yi is obviously taken by Sasha. L meets his gaze with rigid coldness. He opts to instead admire the fountain. 

A few minutes later Sasha and L are leaning along a railing, mimosas in hand, a plate of fruit in L’s other. Sasha is picking out the strawberries, L the raspberries. 

“Are you getting excited?” L asks, popping a raspberry into her mouth. Sasha shrugs. 

“It’s not like much will change,” she says, taking a sip of her mimosa. “I’m only turning 21.” L rolls her eyes. 

“This is a big deal, Sasha,” L sets aside her drink. “You’re graduating next year. You need to take this seriously.”

“Really?” Sasha grimaces. “We’re having this conversation now? Can I at least recoup my hangover first?”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Sasha,” L says. “You can’t keep running these late nights, partying, drinking. You’re going to take over your dad’s business one day. You need to think about the future.”

“Of course I’m thinking about the future, L,” Sasha replies, a tone of seriously to her voice. “You don’t think I want to make him proud? You don’t think I’m utterly terrified of letting him down? I’m not cut out for this, we both know that. It would’ve been better if you were his daughter.”

“Don’t say that, Sasha,” L’s brows pinch. “You’re ready for this. You’ve got more confidence in your little toe than most people have in their whole bodies. That’s all this really takes. And you’ve never let anyone push you around. Neither has your dad.” 

Sasha smiles, reassured. She snatches her drink up and holds it out for a toast. L smiles and hoists her glass.

“Here’s to 21,” Sasha says with a smile. “To maturity, discovery, and finding a place in the world.” L beams with approval. They clink, and Sasha’s expression turns mischievous. “We ‘bout to tear this shit up.” L scowls as Sasha laughs and downs her drink, snatching a tiny fruit tart from a passing tray. 

Later that night at the Egorov compound and estate. Anton Egorov sits behind a large wooden desk in an elegantly furnished room. A knock at the door and Egorov sets down his papers. 

“Voyti.” L steps inside the door. “Ah, Eliana,” Egorov looks back to his papers.

“Otets,” L comes to stand in front of the desk, “you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, just a moment,” Egorov replies, putting aside a document. “These Koreans draft up the most convoluted proposals I have ever seen. Sixteen pages to say one thing.” He looks up at her, less a man to his adopted daughter, more a businessman to another businessman. “What did you think?”

“Jeong seems pliable enough,” L replies plainly. “Too terrified of his master to venture far from the line or cause any trouble. Yi will be even simpler.”

Egorov smiles. “Simpler?”

“Modern haircut and suit, nontraditional posture, German-made watch,” L rattles off. “Not to mention his obviously…forward-thinking taste in women.”

“Sasha,” Egorov smiles again. 

“She has an aptitude for revealing those who are less inclined to tradition,” L smiles in return. “Yi feels restricted by the limits of his traditional master. He’ll welcome an opportunity for advancement elsewhere.” 

“Very good,” Egorov nods approvingly, turning his attention to another document. “You’ll keep an eye on her this week, won’t you?”

“As always, sir.”

“You are a good friend to her, a good sister,” he says. “And a good daughter.”

“Thank you, otets.”

**Author's Note:**

> I praise the glorious minds of the DC Universe creators for giving birth to such fantastic characters with which I am able to indulge my creative desires. I claim no ownership and give all credit to the minds of DC.


End file.
